Costello ran into the LaSalle and came back out in less than two minutes. He didn’t look as if he had found out much if anything from Katz. Before he got back in the car, he looked around the street, but he didn’t see me or anything else of interest. I gave them three more minutes to get out of the neighborhood and made a dash for a taxi that pulled up in front of the LaSalle to let someone out.
“Midway Airport,” I told the cabbie. On the way, I considered the possibility that Costello might call Nitti and they might have a couple of people at airports and train stations to stop me from leaving. Then I figured that Nitti probably wouldn’t bother. He hadn’t been kicked around by a middle-aged detective and a stylish Englishman. Nitti would probably be happy to have me get out of town. Costello and his chums might think otherwise, but they’d have to report to Servi or Nitti before too much time passed, or risk their own heads on the train tracks.
The trip to Midway was long. I blew my nose a few times, dozed off a few more times, and ignored the driver. When we got to the airport, I paid him off and hurried inside. I found a washroom, shaved, and changed my shirt. Then I found a coffee shop, had some Wheaties with sliced bananas, and bought a newspaper.
I found the waiting room where the Marx Brothers flight would come in, but I was hours early. I took a seat in the middle of a group of guys who looked like businessmen and were talking about options.
The paper told me it was Saturday. It also told me that snow would fall, that five senators didn’t like some war bill, and that slot machines were running wide open in the northern suburbs of Cook County. I could have shown them a few in the western suburb of Cicero, too. I also found out that British raiders had bombed Nazi bases in Sicily. That wasn’t what I was looking for. I paused over a story of some kids in Sag Harbor, New York, at a place called Pierson High School. Some of the students had dressed up as storm troopers and started to bully others to show how it feels. There was a picture with the story, showing some girls scrubbing a sidewalk with the young storm troopers standing over them. J. Edgar Hoover was asking for seven hundred more FBI men to help curb Nazi spies. Then I found what I was looking for. Tony Zale had KO’d Mamkos in the fourteenth. Zale had gone down in the fifth, and the fight had been close up until the knockout.
Content, I fell asleep. My dream was about men with different mustaches, all leering and chasing me around a gym. There was a Groucho mustache, a Servi mustache, a Katz mustache, a Hitler mustache. I started throwing balls and gradually worked my way up through baseballs, basketballs and medicine balls. None of them stopped the attack, and my old pal Koko didn’t materialize to save me. I ran through a door and found myself in downtown Cincinnati. I woke up with a groan and a massive sneeze. No one was sitting next to me. I had just enough time to lug my suitcase to a newsstand, buy some aspirin, gulp down a half dozen, and make it back to the waiting room when the Las Vegas plane came in.
Nobody looking like Marx Brothers came off in the first batch. I was about to give up when I heard the familiar screen voice of Groucho saying,
“The least Perry Mason could have done was meet us here.”
The voice came out of a short, erect dark man with a decidedly Jewish face. He was flanked by two slightly older men his own size who looked like twins. I stepped in front of the three men and spoke to one of the twins.
“Chico Marx?” I tried.
“That’s Harpo,” said Groucho. “And it’s pronounced Chick-o, because he’s a chick chaser. Well, whoever you are, you didn’t waste any time in trying to sell us brushes.” He looked down at my suitcase.
“I’m Peters,” I said.
“We’re Wheeler and Zoolsey and El Brendel,” said Groucho, whose bad mood was spreading beyond the four of us.
“I’m Chico,” said one of the men who looked like twins. He held out his hand and I took it. “These are my brothers, Groucho and Harpo.”
“Our real names are Julius, Leonard arid Arthur,” said Groucho, “but the last person who called us that is still locked in the bathroom of Loew’s State.”
Clumps of people went past us, but no one gave even the hint of recognizing the famous brothers. I would have missed them myself if I hadn’t heard Groucho’s voice. Chico’s voice, as I knew, was nothing like his screen voice.
An idea hit me, but I needed time to put it together.
“Well,” said Groucho, “are you going to erect a tent so we can have a noon tea, or are we going to get off of this elephant path?”
I led them to the coffee shop. While they ordered lunch, I did some fast explaining, giving the whole story of the search for Servi and Nitti’s refusal to listen.
“So, you’re telling us Chico should pay $120,000 he doesn’t owe,” said Groucho.
“No,” I said.
“I see, I see,” said Groucho. “You’re telling us Chico should pay and should wait until somebody with a pushed-in face-no offense-”
“None taken,” I said.
“Some guy with a pushed-in face,” Groucho went on, “turns him into Swiss cheese.”
“No,” I said.
“You’re a sterling judge of options, Peters,” said Groucho, turning his attention to a chicken sandwich. “And I’d like to sit around this Chicago version of Ciro’s for days, but we’ve got to throw ourselves on the mercy of someone fast. Just lead us to this Servi character and we’ll work something out.”
“Now wait a minute, Grouch,” said Chico quietly, while Harpo ate silently with eyes never leaving his brothers. “Maybe Toby has a plan.”
“I’ve got a plan,” said Groucho. “You sign legal papers turning all your earnings over to me so things like this don’t happen again. You’ve gambled away more money than you’ve earned, and that’s a lot of gambling.”
“Come on, Grouch,” sighed Chico. “We gonna go through that again?”
“No, no. Sorry to bring it up and ruin your lunch. Just pretend I didn’t say anything. We’ll just go on forever making movies so you can keep ahead of your debts. We’re middle-aged men. We should be bouncing grandchildren and planting petunias. Instead we run around getting hit by trains, falling off horses, and getting punched by heavies.”
It sounded like my life. I let them talk for a few more minutes while I ate an egg sandwich. The three of them had obviously been through this so many times that they knew the routine. Harpo apparently wanted no part of it.
“O.K., Peters,” sighed Groucho, finishing off his sandwich. “What’s your plan-though I know I shouldn’t ask.”
“The three of you go to a hotel,” I said. “You know any hotels in Chicago?”
“We used to live here back in the vaudeville days,” said Chico. “We know the town. How about the Palmer House? There’s usually a good card game or two.”
“This is against my better judgment, but we’ll be at the Drake,” said Groucho.
“And,” I went on, “don’t register with your own names.”
“I almost never do,” said Groucho, “but then again, it’s not because I’m hiding with my brothers. We’ll give you two days for your plan.”
“Fair enough. You sit tight and don’t call anybody. I’ve got an idea that may get you out of this, but it will take me a day or so to set it up.”
“Right,” said Chico. “We can play pinochle in our rooms.”
“I didn’t even bring my guitar,” sighed Groucho.
We picked up their bags and caught a cab. On the way back, I asked them if they were ever spotted on the street and asked for autographs. They agreed that they weren’t very often. I was fairly sure that if I didn’t know who they were and couldn’t tell Chico from Harpo at first look, it might not be very difficult for some small, Jewish-looking guy to pass himself off as the real Chico Marx. It was a wacky possibility, but it was worth a try and it gave me something to work on. First, find the guy who passed for Chico, if such a guy existed. Second, set up a meeting with Chico and Servi, so Servi could either lie or say Chico was the wrong guy. The second was dangerous for Chico, but things didn’t look too great for him now. I didn’t know how to go about the first.